


The Long Game

by alienor_woods



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1556168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienor_woods/pseuds/alienor_woods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the grace of the old gods, the only children she births to Robert are daughters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic as a little character study into Lyanna Stark and how I think she might have turned out had she lived and married Robert. And then ... it went from five pages to ten pages to fifteen pages, and I eventually gave in and realized that, given that I wasn't even close to half-way done with all that I wanted to say, that it would just be a big multi-chapter fic. And here we are today.
> 
> Characters and relationships will be added as they appear. Comments are more than welcome!

By the grace of the old gods, the only children she births to Robert are daughters.

 

They wear pearled stags across their breasts and adorn their hair with golden antlers but Lyanna raises them as wolves. As soon as they could hold up their own heads, she strapped them to her chest and took them out beyond the walls of the Red Keep on the back of the sand steed Robert had gifted her as a wedding present. Robert waves dolls and flowers in their faces, pets their hair, tells them what good little princesses they are. Lyanna walks them to Ser Barristan (slowly, offering nothing when they stumble and trip over unsteady legs but waiting patiently until they pull themselves up on the slippery walls of the castle) who teaches them how to play Wildings and Others with sticks from the godswood.

 

“What are our words?” She asks them at night, her voice quiet and firm as she pulls the blankets up to their chins.

 

“Winter is Coming,” they whisper in return, their bright blue eyes meeting hers in the flickering firelight.

 

They sleep curled around each other, always have, like wolf pups in a den.

 

* * *

 

Ned had found her in the Tower of Joy, weak and delirious, and made him _promise_ —

 

_“Promise me, Ned.”_

—and only after he swore his vow did she agree to marry Robert.

 

He still wanted her, was still _obsessed_ with her, even after Rhaegar had swept her away under the cover of darkness. The Seven Kingdoms had already dismissed her, considered her irreparably torn asunder by a felled dragon and best left for the Silent Sisters. Lord Lannister didn’t even wait for the bones of Elia and the children to leave King’s Landing before he summoned Cersei from Casterly Rock to shove under Robert’s nose.

 

Not Robert, though. No, just scant weeks after he snatched the Iron Throne, he heard that she was resting at Starfall. He blew straight down to Dorne from the Keep against the wishes of the Small Council.

 

Sweet, protective Ned had wanted to take her straight to the Rock, to get her out of the still-hostile Martell lands, but it was because the deep South was still hostile that she needed to stay, just for a while. Ashara had been so sad, and so had Lyanna, because Arthur really had been such a good man, and the two women sat together often, talking softly, looking down at their life’s work in their laps…

 

Robert found her there, standing along the riverbank. She told him that Ned had already left for Winterfell and Ashara had died, and he asked her to come back to King’s Landing, to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. They would never have to speak of Rhaegar again, he promised. The Targaryen dynasty had been razed to Valyria and back, and that he would kill every last dragonspawn that he could lay his hands on to prove to her that she would be safe once more.

 

And she said yes.

 

His infatuation had long since died away, of course. Lyanna knew it would—she had known it since even before Harrenhal, where Rhaegar had named her his Queen of Love and Beauty. Nymeria had been first, born only a year after their wedding, and Cassana right behind. By then, Robert had grown tired of her dry sarcasm and cutting remarks, bellowing that he should have taken the lioness when she had been offered. Lyanna always feigns deference until he leaves, refills her glass of Dornish Red, and returns to her tome. She had been Robert’s dream, but this was the waking world.

 

Cersei Lannister remains at Casterly Rock, one babe in arm and one in belly with nary a husband to claim them. “My children were fathered by a lion,” she told Lyanna once, and Lyanna thinks of the lion that sleeps in the White Sword Tower.

 

_Hear me Roar._

 

Mothers are meant to keep their children’s secrets, after all. At night, Lyanna rocks Cassana by the open window of her nursery and lets her youngest suck her thumb after Robert leaves to drink alone in his solar. Lyanna sends her prayers northward, over the trees of the Kingswood and along the long trail of the King’s Road until she can picture the tall walls of Winterfell and her family's faces in her mind’s eye.

 

Some secrets must be revealed in time.


	2. Chapter 2

She takes the girls north when Nymeria is ten and Cassana just past eight. Robert blusters at her when she only wants to take Jaime and a skeletal staff; he thunders that she should have an army of black and gold at her back.

 

Lyanna half-listens, packing the girls’ practice swords and wooden knights and horses into her daughters’ trunks. Syrio had told Lyanna that it was “important, very much so, Your Grace” that the girls keep practicing, but she does think it’s best if she leaves their finely-crafted Tobho Mott swords here in Syrio’s safe hands. Robert grunts and pulls the toys away, passing her some messy, unfinished needlework instead, and Lyanna dutifully folds it up and presses it down into the stacks of gowns and cloaks. “I am Lyanna Baratheon,” she finally says, her voice slicing across his like Valyrian steel, “Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and a daughter of the North. I do not need an army to protect me from my own people. If anything, it will slow me down, and I am anxious to see Ned and Catelyn. Besides, who would dare touch me or the girls with the Kingslayer himself at my side?”

 

Robert huffs and puffs and drinks and whores and finally lets the matter rest. Days later, as the small retinue loads luggage and supplies into wagons and the wheelhouse, he kneels in front of the girls and chucks them under their chins.

 

“Be good for your mother now. Stitch me something pretty for when you return, alright?”

 

“Yes, father,” they chirrup, kissing him on his red cheeks.

 

“What are our words now, girls?”

 

“Ours is the Fury,” they respond in unison. Lyanna can’t deny the Baratheon in her daughters. She’s heard of and seen enough of Robert’s bastards to know that the inky curls and blue eyes are telltale markers of stagblood. She’s a stag now, too; Robert had put his cloak over hers—grey, because for the life of her she _just couldn’t seem_ to find good white cloth in Dorne on such short notice—so the words belong to her as well, but she can never bring herself to give them voice.

 

 _Winter is Coming_ , her mind whispers, and another motto thrashes and screeches against the dark pit she’s locked it in until she reminds it to be patient, and that its time will come.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ned’s face lights up when she steps out of the wheelhouse weeks later. The trip had been exhaustive, but mostly because Lyanna had set them at a swift pace. When they had crossed into the Neck and the first sharp wind rocked the wheelhouse, Lyanna had brought the girls out and let them ride next to her.

 

“It’s freezing!” Cassana had whined, pulling her cloak tighter around her neck, and Nymeria hissed at her at her to be quiet.

 

“Get used to it! We’re wolves. We’re daughters of the North, just like Mother.” Her own hands had quivered though, and turned red from the cold.

 

“Go get your gloves from the wheelhouse, Nymeria,” she had chided her eldest daughter. “We mustn’t burden Maester Luwin with frostbite the moment we set foot in Winterfell.” When Nymeria urged her horse into a trot, Lyanna had reached over and run her fingers through her youngest daughter’s curls. “Just think of it as a turning season. Like the mild winters we have in the south.”

 

“Nymeria is right, though,” Cassana had replied, turning her bright eyes to her mother’s. “I do need to get used to it. Maester Pycelle says that summer is ending, and that winter is coming.”

 

Now, the girls carefully step out of the wheelhouse, and the courtyard takes the knee before their Queen and princesses. She greets Ned with a wide smile and a tight embrace, and then Catelyn with a kiss to her cheek. Catelyn’s belly presses into hers and Lyanna laughs, running her hand over the head of the quiet child on Catelyn’s hip. “You’re building a quite pack, Ned,”

 

He touches Catelyn’s shoulder: “As many as she’ll give me.” Lyanna motions her daughters over, and they dip polite curtsies to the Lord and Lady of Winterfell.

 

Arya—just a babe when Lyanna saw her last—is like looking into a mirror. She has a dirty training helmet hidden behind her feet and a stripe of dirt across her neck and Lyanna wants to hug Ned once again for letting this girl run free. Nine-year-old Sansa is Catelyn Tully in miniature, with her copper hair twisted ‘round her head. She stares up at her aunt in wonder and murmurs, “your Grace,” like a prayer. And Robb is shooting up like a weed, still sharp in the elbows and knees but with hints of manhood taking root at the curve of his jaw and the set of his shoulders.

 

Surreptitiously, she scans the yard, listening with half an ear to the four wolfgirls chattering away. He’s standing over with the Greyjoy ward, watching the two families interact with a solemn look on his face. Lyanna forces herself to turn away before someone sees her staring.

 

Ned leans over to ask why she brought the Kingslayer into his home, and she cuts her eyes sideways at him. “Because I need him,” she replies. “And I need you to do something for me, too.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Days later, Ned takes all the (true-born) children riding through the wolfswood. From the balcony over the gate yard, Lyanna watches as Jon finishes helping the girls into their saddles. Her heart clenches when he gives Cassana what Lyanna knows is a rare smile while he double checks the length of her stirrups and the tightness of her saddle’s girthstrap. Jon sends them off with a raised hand and a longing gaze. 

 

Jaime is sharpening his blade in his room when she knocks, and he frowns at her as she enters and closes the door behind her. “You should have let me ride with the princesses. I don’t like the look of that Greyjoy.”

 

She moves to forward and clasps her hands over her belly, pressing the flat of her palm against the slight curve, ever present after the successive births of her children. “You were good friends with Rhaegar, weren’t you?” She asks, already knowing the answer.

 

Jaime’s hand stops half-way down the blade, and, slowly, he raises his golden head. Lyanna’s dark eyes meet his steadily and he answers, “Yes,” with a heavy, heavy heart.

 

“He spoke of you often. Of how well you treated Elia and the children.”

 

He remembers _a soft voice—high-pitched giggles—the smell of smoke and blood—tiny bundles wrapped in crimson cloaks_. “Your Grace, what are you—“

 

Lyanna reaches down and tugs the whetstone from his fingers. “Come with me.”

 

They find Jon in the kitchen, idly picking at some cheese and sipping wine. He sees them and springs upwards, and then drops back down onto one knee. “Your Grace,” he greets her, keeping his eyes trained on the ground, “forgive me. If you are looking for refreshment, I’ll find Elena--”

 

“No need,” she says, waving a hand. “We’re just exploring. Ned’s been telling me about the improvements he’s been making to Winterfell and I wanted to see it all with my own eyes.” Jon doesn’t seem to know what to do, so she tells him to stand up, that he’s going to dirty the knees of his breeches like that. He obliges her, shaking his hair out of his face and Jaime sucks in a breath behind her. She ignores it. “You’ve grown since I last saw you, Jon. You’re almost twelve now? Ned tells me that you and Robb are as thick as thieves.”

 

Jon nods, pulling out a rough-hewn chair for her to sit in. She gestures for him to sit, and tells Jaime to do the same. “We’re starting to train together. And Father makes us come to his council meetings,” Jon tells her, dutifully pouring wine for Lyanna and Jaime. “He says we are to accompany him to Lord Renly’s tourney in three moons’ time.”

 

“You’re very lucky to be learning at the hand of the Warden of the North,” she tells him, seeing the unsurety in the boy’s grey eyes when he flicks them up to her.

 

“Father tells me that I must learn everything that Robb does, so that I can help Robb when he gets older and becomes the Lord of Winterfell. Because Bran is so little, I guess, and Sansa and Arya will leave. But…”

 

Lyanna tilts her head and waits. She’s had to learn patience since Starfall, against the nature of her reckless youth. But she will have to wait for a good while longer, so this momentary pause is nothing. She rips a chunk of bread from a loaf on the table and dips it into the wine while Jon finds his words.

 

“It makes Lady Catelyn angry. I know I don’t belong here, not among all of her trueborn children,” Jon reasons, with a resigned finality in his voice.

 

“That’s ridiculous,” Lyanna scoffs. “All Starks belong to Winterfell.”

 

“I’m a Snow, though, your Grace” he corrects her, his face shuttered.

 

“And I’m a Baratheon. But I was born a wolf, and so were you. Whatever the future brings, always remember that wolves run in packs.” She tapped the rim of her glass against his and gave him a wink before she took a deep swallow.

 

“Jon,” Catelyn snaps from the doorway, tightlipped as her eyes flit between Jon and her guests. “Surely you have better things to do than bother the Queen.” Jon scrambles to his feet and bows to Lyanna before crisply turning on his heel and disappearing through a side door. Lyanna keeps her eyes lowered to the grain of the table as he leaves, and Catelyn comes around to the table, pushing in chairs and straightening plates. 

 

“I still don’t know what Ned was thinking, bringing that boy here,” she mutters. “I apologize if he was disturbing you, Your Grace.”

 

“The boy? Not at all,” Lyanna replies warmly, getting to her feet and jerking her head at Jaime. “And please, call me Lyanna as Ned does. We’re all family here.”

 

\--

 

Ned insists on hosting a feast in his sister’s honor a fortnight after her arrival, and several of the Northern houses travel to Winterfell to see their own Lady Lyanna back in the castle’s ancient halls. The party is loud and bawdy, filled with off-key singing and wine—nothing like the polite affairs put on in the South. Benjen had arrived only days before, and he twirls Lyanna around the room as if they were children once more. Robb had made fast friends with his younger cousins, and he partners with Nymeria and Cassana equally through the night, treating them like they were women grown instead of young girls.

 

Gods but her girls were beautiful, Lyanna thinks, watching Nymeria throw her head back and laugh as Robb twirls them about like a pair of dervishes. Cassana sits perched on Ned’s knee and flashes her twin dimples at Benjen when he passes her a lemon cake.

 

“You’ll have to watch out for them in a few years, Lya,” Jory warns from behind her. She’s tucked herself away from the high table for a bit, content to watch the action from afar. In King’s Landing, she’s _her Grace, the Queen_ , but here in Winterfell, she’s just the daughter of Rickard Stark. Most of the men here knew her when she was just a babe, trailing behind Brandon with mud on the hem of her skirt, and have never been too impressed by pretension of the Iron Throne and the Golden Crown.

 

Jory swings his leg over the bench and drops down next to her. He uncorks the wineskin—“Here, it’s Arbor Gold.”—“Oh, thank the Gods”—and fills up her goblet once she dashes the red from the Reach out onto the rushes.

 

“Mmm. Heavenly,” Lyanna sighs after swallowing a large draw. “Now, where does a young lad like yourself come across a skin of Arbor Gold when your Lord is serving a plain red?”

 

Jory waggles his eyebrows at her and raises the skin to his lips. “I’ll have you know that I am paid a fair wage here, my lady. My lord Stark has seen fit to enforce King Robert’s ban on slavery, for which I am personally thankful.” He reaches out and twitches the wide sleeve of her gown. “I heard the queen is here, and when we would sneak around as children, she always liked to steal into her father’s store of Arbor Gold. I’m taking a wild guess that it’s still her favorite.”

 

She laughs and winks at him before pulling a face. “Oh, no, Jory. Now that I’m queen, I’ve had the opportunity to drink wine from all over. Arbor Gold is lovely and all but…it hardly compares to the nectar of Myr, or sweetwine from Volantene. I’ve even sipped the Wine of Courage just because I wanted to know what it tasted like.”

 

“The Wine of Courage? Really?” Jory is genuinely surprised, and Lyanna rolls her eyes and smacks his arm.

 

“No, of course not,” she tells him. “The whole point is that it’s _only_ drunk by the Unsullied. They wouldn’t send me a cask for all the gold in Casterly Rock. But you’re right—Arbor Gold is still my favorite.”

 

The corner of Jory’s mouth twitches, and he raises the skin up in front of him. “To the Arbor, then,” he toasts, and Lyanna taps her goblet against the mouth of the skin.

 

“I believe that you were on the verge of advising me on my daughters, Ser Jory,” Lyanna reminds him, nodding towards where Nymeria and Arya twirled together in a haphazard circle in front of the high table, shrieking with laughter and ignoring the way Sansa and Jeyne Poole whisper to each other as they watch them.

 

Jory hums and points to Nymeria. “She’ll be able to best her husband with a sword, and she,” pointing to Cassana, “will best hers at archery. If they weren’t so lovely and charming, I’d warn you to keep their training secret.” 

 

“The crowns on their heads will help, I suppose,” Lyanna japes, voice light.

 

“Only in the slightest.” Lyanna pulls a face at Jory and he reaches up to pinch her cheek, laughs even more when she twists her head away. “No, if they grow up even half as beautiful as their mother, they’ll have men worshipping at their feet and begging Robert for their hand.”

 

Jory’s eyes are soft and her own cheeks ache from smiling, but she still arches a brow and asks, “Even in spite of their affinity for swords and arrows?”

 

He _tsk_ -s and looks over at Lyanna’s daughters, now flanking Lady Stark and letting her pass them bits of sweet meats from her plate. “If they’ve the brains to match their families’ purses, it’ll be _because_ of it.” Jory turns back to Lyanna and chuffs her under the chin, letting his thumb linger on the point of it. They sit suspended as the fiddle draws out the last note of the reel, until it finally breaks and the crowd applauds. Jory clears his throat and stands up, holding out his hand to Lyanna. “Come now, your Grace, let us show those Manderly barbarians how to properly jig, shall we?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They return south after the next moon’s turn, with Sansa in tow. 

 

Jaime never asks about Jon, but Lyanna finds him in the bowels of the Keep once, months later, staring up at the skull of Balerion the Black Dread. Word had just come from across the Narrow Sea that Daenerys and Viserys Targaryen had gained a friend in a Pentosh Magister named Illyrio. Robert had been furious and threatened to hire out the entire Guild of the Faceless Men to hunt them down. Only Jon Arryn and Lyanna had been able to convince him that two penniless teenagers were best left to their own devices. There was simply no need to inflame any Targaryen sympathies—particularly in Dorne—by murdering a set of orphans, one of whom already had a such a pitiful nickname.

 

“These skulls once lined the throne room,” Jaime says offhand, and hooks his fingers around a lower fang. “It’s hard to truly appreciate them down here in the dark, don’t you think, Your Grace?”

 

“I do,” she replies, and it is the last that they speak of it for years.

 


End file.
